More Trainspotting...
Title: Restrained...
Author: duckgirlie
Rating: R
Fandom: Trainspotting
Pairing: Renton/Sick boy. (This is becoming a bit of an obsession.)
Feedback: Much appreiciated, good or bad.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: For the contralamontre Gay On The Range challenge; done in the time, near about...
Summary: Based on the Fruit Punch book cover.
He was trying to figure out how he’d wound up like this. When he’d left the house, he’d been planning on going out, getting drunk, maybe feel up some girl in a doorway, before stumbling down Prince’s St, eating a rancid kebab, or maybe a deep-fried Mars bar, throw up in another doorway, before collapsing onto the floor and sleeping until midday.
That had been the plan. At no point had the plan included waking up in someone’s bed. And defiantly not a bed he didn’t recognise.
Fuck.
Where the fuck was he? He made to pull himself up, but his hands were fastened to the bed.
Fuck.
Why the fuck was he here? He thrashed around in the bed. A useless gesture, he knew, serving only to push the blanket off the bed, leaving him suspiciously shirtless. He was stating to get panicked, looking furiously around the room. He was getting increasing nervous, when he heard a low laugh coming from the end of the bed. Twisting himself painfully, he arched his back, and caught a glimpse of the laugher before collapsing.
Sick boy. He should have known. Who else would tie someone to a bed? Or at least, who else would tie someone to a bed for no reason then to sit there and laugh? Sick boy was obviously wasted, a thin roll-up dangling from his lips. Still in the suit. Whenever Sick boy was serious about pulling, he wore the suit. But it didn’t feel that late, and if he’d pulled he’d still be out. But he was in to good a mood not to have done. He could feel Sick boy staring at him, feel himself getting uncomfortably tight in his drainpipe jeans.
“Ah Rent’s.” Sick boy’s voice was thick. “I didn’t know you cared.”
He opened his mouth, ready with a quick explanation, to dismiss the implication. To tell Sick boy his bulging jeans weren’t due to him. He opened his mouth, but closed it again when he felt his Sick boy’s hand on his leg.
The breath caught in his throat, as the hand slid further ups his leg, brushing the inside of his thighs. His hand, skilled with practice, undid his fly in one go, and his pushed his hand inside Renton’s boxers.
He gasped as Sick boy’s hand moved, his sweaty palms sliding up and down, faster and faster. He arched his back, straining at the restraints, his eyes crossed Sick boy’s face and he saw the unchanged dazed expression on the other man’s face. He arched his back as he came, shooting over his chest, tearing so hard at the restraints that he cut his wrists.
Sick boy blinked slightly, wiping his hand on Renton’s jeans. He rolled off the bed, and left the room, leaving him tied to the bad.
Author: duckgirlie
Rating: R
Fandom: Trainspotting
Pairing: Renton/Sick boy. (This is becoming a bit of an obsession.)
Feedback: Much appreiciated, good or bad.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: For the contralamontre Gay On The Range challenge; done in the time, near about...
Summary: Based on the Fruit Punch book cover.
He was trying to figure out how he’d wound up like this. When he’d left the house, he’d been planning on going out, getting drunk, maybe feel up some girl in a doorway, before stumbling down Prince’s St, eating a rancid kebab, or maybe a deep-fried Mars bar, throw up in another doorway, before collapsing onto the floor and sleeping until midday.
That had been the plan. At no point had the plan included waking up in someone’s bed. And defiantly not a bed he didn’t recognise.
Fuck.
Where the fuck was he? He made to pull himself up, but his hands were fastened to the bed.
Fuck.
Why the fuck was he here? He thrashed around in the bed. A useless gesture, he knew, serving only to push the blanket off the bed, leaving him suspiciously shirtless. He was stating to get panicked, looking furiously around the room. He was getting increasing nervous, when he heard a low laugh coming from the end of the bed. Twisting himself painfully, he arched his back, and caught a glimpse of the laugher before collapsing.
Sick boy. He should have known. Who else would tie someone to a bed? Or at least, who else would tie someone to a bed for no reason then to sit there and laugh? Sick boy was obviously wasted, a thin roll-up dangling from his lips. Still in the suit. Whenever Sick boy was serious about pulling, he wore the suit. But it didn’t feel that late, and if he’d pulled he’d still be out. But he was in to good a mood not to have done. He could feel Sick boy staring at him, feel himself getting uncomfortably tight in his drainpipe jeans.
“Ah Rent’s.” Sick boy’s voice was thick. “I didn’t know you cared.”
He opened his mouth, ready with a quick explanation, to dismiss the implication. To tell Sick boy his bulging jeans weren’t due to him. He opened his mouth, but closed it again when he felt his Sick boy’s hand on his leg.
The breath caught in his throat, as the hand slid further ups his leg, brushing the inside of his thighs. His hand, skilled with practice, undid his fly in one go, and his pushed his hand inside Renton’s boxers.
He gasped as Sick boy’s hand moved, his sweaty palms sliding up and down, faster and faster. He arched his back, straining at the restraints, his eyes crossed Sick boy’s face and he saw the unchanged dazed expression on the other man’s face. He arched his back as he came, shooting over his chest, tearing so hard at the restraints that he cut his wrists.
Sick boy blinked slightly, wiping his hand on Renton’s jeans. He rolled off the bed, and left the room, leaving him tied to the bad.